The Simple Things
by SomethingI'veForgotten
Summary: Seen through Wolfram's POV, the blonde comes to realize it's not the big picture, but the details that make life tolerable. It's AU which is horrible, it's angsty, and it's terrible, I know.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings**: AU yet bloody again, angst,slash yaoi, sexual hints but luckily for you all, I can't write a lemon even if my life depended on it. Er...does unbeta's count too?

**Disclaimer**: Me? Own KKM? You kiddin' me, right? If I owned that show, I don't think NHK would be able to air it even IF it comes on at midnight! (>>; Only people who know about the NHK channel should get this...harr.)

**A/N**: I so know I've still got my other story to finish, but this plot bunny snuck up and attacked my with a pitch fork. (Sadly, I've even got another one roiling around in my head. I blame being cooped up in this house due to rain and lack of money.) Anyway, this was something to help me pass the time (and get the annoyance off my back for not doing anything) and...cha. This may be upsetting to readers, I'm aware, and perhaps OOC to a high point but in a way that's the beauty of an AU (also the HORRIBLE UGLINESS because I'm ruining a perfect show BUUUUT I can't help myself! Someone, stop my ego!) Buuut...anyway, yes. This is what happened and...I'm probably going to continue it just the same as my other one - only when I bloody feel like it. So, hopefully, a few of you will enjoy it for the AU angst-fest it is.

**The Simple Things: Chapter 1**

The room was out of focus at first - everything so blurred and hazy. Why, for the many seconds it took until things righted itself again, eluded me. I couldn't tell if it was because sleep still clouded my eyes, or if the dream I can no longer recall haunted me enough that I might've been shedding tears in my sleep. Or perhaps it was simply this: it was not yet daylight.

I groan – I really have no business being up this early. True, school was not to start for at least another week. But I don't want to be up right now – I don't want to be aware of where I am. I don't want to be so acutely aware of the fact that it's two a.m., that I've woken from a nightmare, that it's cold under this single blanket of mine, and that I am once again utterly alone in this house.

I roll over, burying my head in my pillow and inhale, finding more things I'd rather not. It smells of sweat, of long shed tears and of _sex_. I am acutely reminded of my job when my brothers are out – of my career out on the street and my last customer. The hairy one with the large nose and disgusting, lecherous curl to his lips and who's face lighted up like road kill and who's body was so disproportional that I could only bite my tongue and force the bile down.

I roll over again, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving and trying – just _trying_ to forget that part of me. I don't want to think of last evening, I don't want to think of other evenings, and I most certainly didn't want to think of myself. But the longer I lingered half naked in this flimsy bed of mine, with the curtains only half-drawn and the smog tapping at my window, the more it hurls at me. I can't stand my room any more – it's old and it's peeling and it's suffocating, like watching an old man make his way through a park.

I pull myself up, swing my legs over the side of the low bed and force myself out of bed. It's not that there's much a difference between the morning air and between my sheets – it's the simple fact that moving reminds myself of the aches I subject myself to, and that's a hard fact to face. I take a quick inventory about my squalid little hellhole – the walls are bare, my clothes in slight disarray. It's folded, neatly so, but they just lie there on the ground, as though I don't care about them. I guess I don't really. There is a dresser – a wooden one, in fact, and its handles are metal with a European design. It's got claws, I mean, and intricate curls and swirls on it for nothing more than decoration, and it's useless really because the brass has dulled and faded by now.

Above it is a vanity mirror – rather feminine but I guess my mother had expected a girl after two boys, and I've never bothered to really care much about it any more. There is my bed, with its wooden frame that creaks especially when one of my older, heavier customers crawl into it, and the mattress has long been flattened with so many heavy people on it, the plaid red and white sheets crumpled and wrinkled. The same goes for my covers – what used to be a fluffy, warm sheet of plain white is now riddled with so many unseen stains and washed so many times to hide who I am on lonely nights that it's gone flat like old soda. The blue rug beneath my feet is scratchy and almost feels grimy beneath my feet.

There's not much else in my room – save a closet, where I stash away special things. Things I don't touch any more, because I'm too old for them any more, or because I'm afraid of looking at them again. I know, somewhere, in a box is a picture of my family. It's probably dusty by now, and it's old and warped and maybe even fading. But I know it's there, somewhere, because I can remember putting it there and telling myself I'd keep it forever. My fingers twitch at the memory – a part of me wants to run back to that time and find that picture and cling to it like it was hope itself, and a part of me wants me to smash into pieces and scream.

I choose neither, because the room is coming in on me again and I can't stand it any longer. I'm sure if I stand there in my underwear any longer, my head will explode from my own complications and when they come home, it won't be a pretty sight. I bend and grab the closest thing to me off the floor – it's an old old-sleeved shirt of mine with a picture of a silly bear and a pot of honey. I think my mother bought it for me on one of her trips to New Jersey – I can't remember, it's been so long since I last saw her. But I toss it on anyway out of convenience, and fish around for some pants. I come upon a pair of jeans that have holes at the knees – did I do those, or was it out of purpose? I can't recall.

The house is closing in on me again, and I have to hurry. Slipping them on, I open a drawer and reach beneath the pile of socks inside to get my keys before rushing out. I don't want to linger there any longer. I flee into the halls – small and narrow and wooden and am reminded of how different Japan is from the other places I lived. Everything is so tiny here – and though I'm considered short for my age – I still can't help but wonder how it's possible to make it through such tiny streets. Or stand back and look at the houses – our house is considered large by the neighbors but we barely have a yard or a garage at that, and I can still see all the other houses crowding in close, like people packing into the trains at rush hour. Or sardines in the last can.

I find myself out the door faster than I thought and am right at the door. All the shoes are gone – showing everyone's trusted I'm grown up and too old for them any more and I guess they're right. But I can't help but feel resentment that they've all gone and left and here I am in the house that we've all dared to call home for over nine years and yet it's me and usually only me who stays here. As a last minute thought, I grab up my hat and tug it over my head because I know it'll be cold out, even if it's summer. It's still dark out, and I know how the weather is by now. It likes to drop at night, where it can chill the bones but rack it up into the triple digits by mid-noon.

My hat is simple – it's something my brother made me years ago. It's made of yarn and brown in color, with little tails going down the side to keep my ears warm. Its got its own set of ears too – little bear one right on the top, and I've been stopped many times before and asked where I got it from. Mostly from giggling school girls to fawn over it then fawn over my foreign looks and I smile at them and shake my head, telling them they'd never find it at a store. Then they go down the street, whispering to each other, remarking how my speech was nearly flawless and that hardly detected an accent and how strange it was for a foreigner to speak their language and I pretend not to notice.

I have to fake I don't hear them when I'm on the streets, and I frown as I lock the door knowing the prejudices I face when I step out this door. Everyone here has black hair or a rich brown color, with dark eyes. They all have a creamy kind of colored skin – skin that turns brown in the sun. Compared to the Japanese, I look like a white sheep in a flock of black. They act as though I don't know that my skin is pink, that my hair is blonde and that my eyes a large, striking green with nearly no pupils. They act as though I don't know there's a feminine tilt to my jaw, that my nose is pointed rather than round and flat, and that my lips aren't as ridiculously thick as theirs. I know that I'm European, and I don't think the others have the right to whisper loudly to each other, "Oh, look at him, he's not Japanese! He must be American – let's watch him carefully! I bet he doesn't know how to use chopsticks, ha ha ha!"

Those aren't the only comments I get. But I try not to think any the others.

I push myself away from the neighborhood – it's no longer safe there. It feels like the air has turned into quick sand, all thick and suffocating and it makes it hard to stand let alone breathe. With old white shoes speckled in gray city smudges, I make my way down the residential road, head turned down. I know the way by now to the main city road, I know which turns to make and what I'll see if I lift my eyes just a bit. Nothing changes here – it's not city enough to. It's not complete country either – it's just not the heart of Tokyo for anyone to care to keep up with things, not that I care much. I know how far I have to go down the always busy main street, which crosswalk to go across, which lamp post to duck under, and which cigarette vending machine I have to get around before I get to the convenience store.

I go there, most of the times when the house gets that sickly. The owner recognizes my face by now, but he never talks to me or asks me "hey kid, what's with the long face?" and I think that's why I enjoy coming here so much. There's always just a nod for me and a familiar face and I know he'll never make me face the shame I do when I look in my vanity mirror. He knows that sometimes, I come here with no money or reason, and I'd just wander the store poking at a few things or reading the instructions on the back of a few instant made foods, and he doesn't say a word. He knows I've got money in my pocket and three out of four times, ends up spending it on something even if I don't want it. It's a kind of "thanks for listening" you could say, even if I haven't breathed a word.

Tonight, when I push open the door to the shop, there's the man behind the counter and reading the news. He's a middle-aged man, balding a little but with a rustic smile that always makes me think he shouldn't really be here. But he's friendly enough, and his hands are burly enough that I'm sure he could knock the guns from city slicker's hands if need be. He hardly looks up from his paper because I'm sure he's used to the squeak my shoes make on his floor, and knows it's just me and only me. I do my usual thing of wandering the candy aisle, brushing fingers along crinkled plastic, frowning slightly at myself.

I'm too old for these.

So I decide to head over to the instant meal place, to see if there's perhaps a ramen flavor I haven't tried yet, or maybe some yakisoba, or just anything. Not to my surprise, there's hardly anything left by now and I'm sure if I had come an hour later, there'd be more things on the shelf because it hasn't been restocked yet. I curse, moving on.

There's some tea in the fridge near the frozen area, and a bag of instant gyouza. I grab that, figuring I'd probably eat this for a few days until at least Conrad comes back, and heft the largest bottle of tea in hand as well. Turning on my heel I make my way to the counter where I pay for it in blue bills. It's more than enough, but I don't have any smaller cash on me, and the change he provides me with should give me enough to buy a condom for tomorrow night.

That was certainly a cheer killer, and I know the cashier notices it because he frowns too. I see his mouth falling open and I want him to shut up before he says anything, so I snort and close my eyes, tossing my head into the air and sniffing disdainfully. This usually puts off anyone, this arrogant part of me, and I know there'll be no questions asked tonight. He hands me my things, I take it and I push my way almost brutally out of the store, shoes stomping slightly at the ground as I make my way back home.

Damn those condoms. Forget tomorrow night – I just won't work. It's not like they'll miss me – there's plenty of females for those bastards. What's one little boy refusing to beckon them over gonna do? I've got better use for my money – like a bottle of pills to help me sleep and forget the smell of my room and the smell of alcohol breath, the taste of hard-working, cheating lips and the air of a house too small but too big.

But I'm not looking where I'm going, and before I know it I've hit someone. I know it was a someone because there was another voice going "ouch!" besides mine but from the sound of it, only I was the one who fell. I take a moment to blink in an almost stunned fashion I suppose, holding the bag of merchandise close to my chest. I expect a sorry and a quick pass-by, or maybe a loathsome snort and a shake of the head. But when I finally lift my eyes, already feeling a glare come to my face, I'm shocked with what I see.

He's probably my age – maybe younger? – And he's looking down at me. It's not pity I see in his eyes, but it looks like he's truly concerned over the fact I've just been knocked onto my backside. He's bent over slightly, one hand on his knee. His hair is an inky black mess, part of it falling over one of his eyes, the other bigger and rounder than most, but so clear and dark. He's got a scarf around his neck and a long overcoat of black and brown threads, with what are probably school uniform pants.

He's not an astoundingly beautiful boy – but he's not so ordinarily plain that you could easily by-pass him. He's got the face of someone utterly innocent, the hair of a boy who's not entirely too concerned about fitting in, and such expressive eyes that I can't tear my own away from them. I know if I look hard enough, I'd see myself like a mirror, and I wonder for a moment if I'd still feel that same shame – or will it be much worse?

"Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I really must watch where I was going! I didn't see you until the last minute, I really should've caught you earlier, here, please, let me help you up!"

He sure rambles a lot, and quickly too. Like he doesn't know when to turn off his mouth.

But his hand is reaching out to me, and I noticed they're tan and callused, as though he spends time with them. Like there's more to his life than schoolwork and video games and sex, and suddenly, I know that this is my life savor.

I feel my face heat up – is it because its summer? I blame it on that immediately – it must be the creeping summer heat, the fickle air that decides to switch oh so quickly and I take the hand even if I'm still frowning. I'm frustrated with myself because I can feel how my cheeks and the bridge of my nose are burning, and I don't want them to be especially in front of this stranger, and I don't want him to be so nice and friendly to me!

But time is molasses and as he tugs me back to my feet and helps to brush my shoulder off, I notice it. Everything is slow and compressing again, and it's hard to breathe but it's not like before. Before was a crushing sort of feel, like slowly being stoned to death. I could feel my ribs shake and collapse under a weight, bending inwards and puncturing my lungs, filling my body with a sort of clotted blood. But this type of thing was as though I were emerging from deep inside a pool or like I'd just stuck my hand into a vat of honey, and was watching long golden tendrils ooze down from between my fingers. Like I was watching time and particles drift and sifting away, and if I stuck my tongue out right now, it'd taste sweet and sugary.

He's close now, fingers brushing over my cheek. He seems caught up a little in this flow of honey, because his eyes are wide and he's blushing too.

"You're a foreigner," he states, like everyone else and I get mad before I can think.

"Of course I'm a foreigner, dimwit. No Japanese has blonde hair like I do." I snap at him and shift the groceries in my arms, and he finally takes a step back as though he'd just realized the ambrosia was binding us. He smells like sweat – like he was running earlier, and I suddenly want to be close again and smell his neck because his sweat is so different from the one on my pillow.

It'd a good change.

But he smiles a little and rubs the neck I had thought of earlier, even through the scarf, and it's the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I want to see it again and again and again, but I've already bit at him and I know I won't be seeing it for long, so I just snort in reply. He's sheepish and I expect him to weave around me by now. But instead, he just says:

"I guess you're right. It's weird though, hearing a foreigner speak Japanese so well. Have you been taking lessons long? It's flawless too, perhaps you've lived here a while?"

I don't want to talk about myself – I'm not used to it. Sure, I've snapped out my opinions or demand material things, but I've never truly talked about _myself_ for this to be comfortable. After all, most of the people who get close I don't want to get attached to, and those that I am are never exactly around. I can't just up and open myself up, can I?

"It's only obvious. My speech is far too impeccable to be that of someone merely taking lessons, don't you think Einstein?"

I can't keep the sarcasm from my words, and I'm sure he notices. This boy, this stranger, this foreigner to his own land blinks at me with those large clear eyes, and I have to avert my own to keep myself from seeing the hurt I'm sure is there. I decide it's me who should make the first move to leaving, otherwise the two of us would be forced to stand there and converse and I'll only make myself worse. I take a step to the side, move the bag up into my chest a little more, and am prepared to take the first few steps that will lead me to the rest of my life.

"You're pretty," he says suddenly, almost fiercely, and I stop.

I've been told that many times before. From my brothers, from my mother, from my customers, and from random girls an even boys, but this one was different. He doesn't say it with the raw husky tones like the males, for the squeals of shallow females, he doesn't say it like it was a testimony to his genes like my mother, or as just something to pacify my temper like my brothers. He says it in a hushed tone, an insistent one, like a breathed whisper of awe. He says it like he truly, truly means it, and merely wishes for me to acknowledge that fact alone and perhaps be proud that I am.

My face heats up again and I turn my head away from him. "It's forward and rude of you to say. Where's your manners, Japanese boy?"

But he smiles a little shyly in reply. "I can't help it – you are, and it just slipped out."

I make a noise in the back of my throat, and he seems disappointed at my lack of interest in anything he has to offer. I figure by now that he's willing to let me walk away, that I can do the one thing that I've been dying to do since I left the house.

But I realize, in order to do so, I'd need to take this distraction with me.

"Carry my groceries."

He seems surprised by the demand I make. "Excuse me…?"

"You want to make up for knocking me over, right? It doesn't hurt – but I'd like a more sincere apology than just a 'sorry.' You can make it up to me by carrying my bags."

And without giving him time to protest, I turn around and dump the bags on him, and he carries them even if he seems slightly surprised, slightly irritated, and finally happy. There's a smile tugging at his lips – I can see it from the corner of my eyes and I can't help but return it with a little smirk of my own.

He's the first one I've ever taken home with no intent on sleeping with him and he comments about our house. He doesn't seem impressed that it's bigger than most – he is more surprised with the amount of foreign objects and the swords we keep hanging on our wall. He sets the groceries on the table and sets about removing his shoes and setting them neatly whereas I just kick them off and leave them as they lay. I can hear him fixing up the mess as I take up my purchases and set about putting the only two items I have away, and his footsteps are quiet as they come around the kitchen, towards the open counter.

"There's no one here." He whispers it softly, as if afraid of someone hearing.

"It's just me." I don't want to talk about it, and I'm thankful that he seems to sense that, and drops the matter there.

"Well, I should get going, neh? It's late and all…"

I shrug in response, despite the feeling of the place creeping up on my like a black panther, readying to pounce. As a final act, I turn on my heel and open the fridge again, and take out a small bottle of water. This I hand to the boy, the boy whose eyes and hair are so dark in this light that it's like shadow.

"Take this. As thanks."

"But…I thought…"

"Just do it!"

And he smiles faintly, this I can see, and he takes the bottle, our fingers brushing. I shiver, and it's not because it's cold, but I can't possibly fathom why and I don't think I want to think on it. He doesn't budge despite his words, he just stands there shifting from foot to foot, and looking uneasy for a moment as we're both quiet. And when he finally does speak, it's soft as his smiles but I can hear him anyway.

"My name is…Shibuya Yuuri. Nice to meet you."

I snort in reply, which I think he knows to take as a "likewise." It's rude to with hold my name, I know, but it's hard to finally tell someone that it's as if I'm coughing around an old, dusty book and it's arcane words are making me hack.

"Wolfram."

He blinks at the foreign name and his tongue stumbles around the syllables like a child running through lumpy grounds and I sigh.

"Vo-ru-fu-ra-mu." I say this slowly and strangely, so that he may follow along, which he does. It still sounds funny, and to some point it does irritate me, but somehow, it sounds more endearing when it comes from this Yuuri.

"Vorufuramu," he murmurs, and I fight back this urge to smile. His smile comes naturally though. "It's so long – can I call you Vorufu for short?"

And it makes me flush again, because no one but my mother calls me that. And I have no intention on letting this boy get so close to me so quickly, because it's unnatural and it's too fast and I'm so very afraid on the inside now, because this boy is too beautiful to break. But as I open my mouth to tell him he could never, ever, ever call me that, I find myself agreeing.

"Only if we're alone."

He nods solemnly, and I sigh at myself. But Yuuri seems happy to be endowed this privilege as if he knew what I was risking by having him here and so close and dammit, I didn't want him to go. But he finally moves now, when I don't want him to, and goes back to his shoes and begins to slip them on. I remain in the kitchen, listening to him, my hands moving to support myself on the counter because I feel so weak now, and this house will eat me alive.

He's got his shoes on, I can hear him tapping the toes on the ground and I wait for the door to open.

"Vorufu?"

It sounds so sweet and confused, so much that I want to strangle him now but I won't. The nickname is already such a cute sound, and it sounds like salvation, like a lifeline and I want to grasp at it.

"What do you want, you…"

I don't know what to finish that with. I know I want it to be an insult, but I can't think of one right now and he cuts me off anyway.

"I'm free tomorrow. If you want, I can come visit you again. I'd like to see those swords."

I can hear the blush in his voice and if I close my eyes, I can see it on that face of his. His offer already sounds like a promise, and I realize with a slow sort of wonder that I'm happy to receive it, yet am afraid of it being broken.

"Do what you want. I've got no where to be."

"Great! I'll come by tomorrow then – promise you'll be home?"

I feel a bitter laugh bubbling up my throat. As though I've got anywhere else to go, but I find myself haughtily scoffing at him. "We'll see."

And then he was gone, taking with him the oppressing feel of home. It suddenly felt like the malicious shadows had been chased away when the door clicked shut behind Yuuri, as though he'd gone on hands and knees and cleaned every corner of this place and made it new. It still looked the same – there was plenty of dust and grime left behind old vases and fake flowers, but that didn't matter because this house was different now.

And there was a tomorrow to look forward to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** Er, the same as earlier? Not mine, AU, unbeta'ed, angst, and... Maybe some descriptive thing of a possibly still touchy subject.

**Author's Notes:** I don't quite like this chapter, but I'd had the itch to write just something and needed to get an incident I'd experienced off my chest. I'm aware they're both rather OOC (bleh...) but... Eh, I just needed to write. >>; And yes, I'd been listening to the song mentioned in this thing when I wrote this. -is horrible, knows.- So, uhm, yeah. -hides in a corner.- On a better note, I'm actually developing some form of idea of things things to happen?

I sigh, running fingers through my hair, then calmly as I can, raise my eyes to stare at the mirror. The water is on, running somewhere beneath me, draining down a dark hole and I swear that sometimes, my soul just wants to follow it.

But I doubt I'd like the stench of the sewer much. However much better it'd be then the stink of sex and loneliness that always permeates in this damned house of mine.

That doesn't matter right now though, because I'm staring at my reflection and thinking so deeply it's like not thinking at all. Rather, random, disjointed words coming to me from all angles, shot at me like so many balls of crumpled paper.

And somewhere behind me, a CD plays on my radio. I can't remember what I popped in – I just recall waking too early and cursing just about everything I knew in my existence before feeling around me for just _something_ to hear rather than this empty air. I knocked things over, swore, refused to pick them up, and just grabbed up the nearest thing. Popped it in and it'd been playing since. I listen for a second or two – half-listen, actually, - and catch a woman warbling, _"…I'm just bad neeeeews…"_

He comes tonight. To look at swords, yes, and maybe we'll talk. Maybe we'll sit and watch T.V, maybe we'll listen to some music, maybe he'll pin me beneath predatory eyes and whisper my name, and when it's over he'll—

I realize I don't want my thoughts to go down that track. I don't want to think of that, because if I do I might not want him over any more. My chest expands, the skin stretching over the bones under a thin layer of fat and a thicker layer of muscle, all of it corded and in synch with each other to make up my body. It stretches and is collapses and then it does it all over again because that is all it knows how to do, because that is living.

Goddamn I hate monotony. It just wouldn't hurt to have a bit of it in my life, though.

And then I raise my eyes, stare at myself truly, see my reflection rather than think of what I've actually roused myself before afternoon for. I stare at some bedraggled runt – nothing but a sad pale collection of a foreigner. Green eyes with the scant purplish beginnings of bags starting to develop, a long slim nose, pale golden hair fluttering with each breath. My cheeks are still roundish – I wonder vaguely why it isn't sunken yet, then if I really _do_ want them to be sunken at all. My collarbone juts out over the smooth expanse of skin, like hills over a plain and my ribs occasionally peek out, causing another shadow to appear on this scrawny body of mine. But then it's gone as though it'd never been there, and I laugh bitterly when I mutter "Conrad."

So we were going to go down this road again, huh?

Flashes of memories go through my mind. The smell of freshly cutgrass, the stink of factory air, the light touches of sun on my skin. Someone laughs, I laugh, and it felt good. Really, it did. But then there are also the little unsavory bits too. A cold touch of a hand that's spent much too much time in the comfort of an air conditioned room, the thick smell of rich cologne, a murmured, "It's just for a few weeks, Wolfram."

He'd been so young too.

Then it was gone, and I was looking at myself again, and asking myself, "What the hell happened?"

I know it was memory, I know it's not tangible, and I know it'd affect me like nothing else. Well, if I admitted truth, I'd know that—

But I know what happened. But I wasn't wondering what happened, but rather, _why_ things had to turn out that way, and why I had to care this damn much, and so many other why's that I think the amount of people who's cum I've swallowed would be less.

It'd also be less painful to recount, because the some of the whys had reasons and names and blame all of which would somehow tie back to me.

Sometimes, when I think, I don't make sense.

"I'll keep it that way," I mutter to myself, letting a smirk come to my face. My jeans are faded and ripped and in a time long ago, they would've been very unappealing. But in the here and now, kids seem to love this look and I figure I'd keep them on. It's not like I'd actually go out anywhere today because I don't feel like I'm refined or articulate enough to and I don't want to see anyone else but my guest that I'm expecting any hour now – or perhaps not at all.

He came later on – explaining to me in that rushed, rambling, excited way of his that he had a job, and was tying the lose ends. He explained needlessly that these were his last few days – as it was the last few days of vacation for us – and that he was preparing to get back into school. He then looked distant as he muttered off a list of supplies he still needed to by and how he hoped they were still in supply this time of year, then seemed to recall that he was a guest and apologized once more in that breathless way of his.

I looked annoyed, but I was really just never taking my eyes off his lips and my ears off his voice, and hoping he'd never get those shoes off if only to be stuck in time like this. I realize I could live like that happily, me leaning arrogantly against the doorjamb, arms crossed over a chest dressed in a simple shirt emblazoned with some American band. I don't know who they are – it was a random gift a brother of mine had gotten me while away. I think I tried to burn it once, but realized I didn't want to without him watching.

And there he was, right before the door, his ass several inches away from my bare feet. He's struggling to wrench his worn tennis shoes off – are they really that hard to get off? – and tuck them safely away where all the other shoes should be, but instead there's only mine and it looks sad without his shoes next to them. He's flushed but smiling, his black bangs slightly coated in sweat and random pieces are stuck to the sides of his face, following the gentle curve of the bones there. His frame keeps jerking and shifting as he struggles and fights, and were I still a child I'd have laughed.

But it lasts too shortly, and the shoes are off and he jumps to his feet in a jack-in-the-box of optimism. Where I am glum and gloom and a pale wraith, he is the exact opposite. He's tanned and healthy, with a big bright smile that comes easily to his face and dark hair. He is all glam and easy sweet stride; he is what I should've been. I'm willing to bet he's got a family around him constantly, he's got someone to be with him even when he doesn't want them to be and I doubt there's ever a situation like that, because he does what so many Asians can't do and I find it almost funny.

He's open and clear; he's bright and sunny. Sun. Where I feel like a dirty unwashed demon of old, he's a bright sun. And I should burn, and I think a part of me is, but it doesn't hurt. It's peeling and crackling and I feel hot and flustered in that part of me, I feel like I'm withering and crying out, but I don't want it to stop.

I think this was why I wanted him over so badly.

"Vorufu," he moves smoothly past me, wandering into the room behind me in a sound of baggy pants pulling against the movement of legs. My head turns to follow him, and soon my body does too, but my back doesn't leave the jamb. My eyes follow this boy, this stranger in my house, and I feel the shadows once more recede to whatever crevice or corner or damned hell they came from. Hiding from this boy's brilliance even as he goggles wide-eyed at a pair of decorative swords like a goose at the hatchet. And then he's looking back at me with that same wonder and amazement and so pure is the emotion in them I nearly flinch. "These are yours?"

My shoulder lifts and falls in a lazy shrug, my eyes passing down that face because I can't stand to look any more for I'm sure my eyes will boil over and explode. I look down the column that is his neck, then over the shirt spangled with stars – isn't that a girl's shirt? – covered sloppily by a gray vest, then those baggy khaki pants and finally the floor.

"My mother's."

"She likes swords? Ah, well, that's pretty neat! My mother used to fence when she was younger, so it's not so weird to me – ah, but my mom is kinda weird sometimes, you know? She's not like a regular mom is, and… But that's cool your mom likes swords!"

"She doesn't really want them, but my grandfather passed them to her anyway. My uncle wanted them originally, and she'd wanted to give them to him. Grandfather left it in his will, so she's stuck with them. Mother thinks they're dangerous."

Its so much more history than I'd ever really told anyone who didn't already know, and I shut my mouth immediately. I couldn't help myself; couldn't stop the words from flowing. I wonder if that's going to become a habit, then I wonder if it was a contagious disease that this boy dragged in along with his brightness and his ways of chasing away the stench of mildew and semen and old, clotted blood.

And he looks at me as though he's torn between asking more or saying the words I'm sorry, and I know I don't want to hear him say it because that would be useless. Words never made the world better as much as people like to think, because words have lost their power along with magic and now its dead and buried and I want to keep it that way.

It, of course, being my past and anything dealing with it. Even the words "I'm sorry."

But he just continues to give me that look before he looks back at the swords and now they're different in his eyes. He's no longer as awed, but now it's like he's looking at a relic. Something old and to be revered, something he'd rather avoid but can't and so instead he'd be as polite with it as he could. I almost would've thought he were face to face with my grandfather, who had an air about him that was controlling and straightforward and so unyielding that it was better to just do what he said. But of course, my family is made up of all perfect little clone of him, and so we're usually a big raucous hen's nest of people pecking each other's throats and eyes, all unyielding and uncompromising because we're so sure our own way is right.

"So they're old," I hear him muse. "Second world war? First?"

"Not that old, I don't think. Nothing's that old any more. At least, nothing that's not in a museum by now."

Because everything's there now. I'd once visited the Nagasaki Museum for the atom bomb, looked around. I think it's relatively new – and it amazed me the things they had there. Of course, it also pained me to see everything and think a part of me may have done this to another person. I couldn't stop staring at the mangled corpse they so gleefully played on the screen in the corner along a wall with a blown up picture of the destruction they put on display. I'm not sure what made my stomach flop more – seeing the bones who's flesh was now ash looking like rag dolls Gwendel used to sew when we were younger, or seeing how these things could be on display as though they'd had no respect for what these people had gone through.

Then again, I guess there's no better respect than shock value.

But what struck me most was a display right there behind plexiglas, a greyed and fraying article of clothing big enough to fit the dying remains of a doll. And the little box of words next to it, giving its history just as I had so plainly told Yuuri of my grandfather's swords. Words that expressed how this had been donated to the museum – a relic, a memory. And it pained me to think a baby – no, _someone's _baby – had once worn that, and the many years of anguish it must've caused, the many nights of cradling this thing that must've surely been radioactive and stinking of smoke and dirt and death. How this woman had held so tightly and screamed out into the Japanese air that was then choked with so many vile things and wondered why her baby who'd been so innocent had to be dragged away from her.

And then I tried to think of the pain the baby had went through, and supposed that was infinitely more merciful than the fate of the mother it left behind.

But there it was, on its very own merry stand behind a case of glass with words depicting all this pain and shoved right into your face in front of a picture. A picture of bones of buildings – its skin of wood and tile spread across the landscape – spew plumes of smoke into the black and white air, with dead bodies as its only inhabitant. Well, there was a young woman who looked shocked and dazed and like she'd just been born and I knew how she felt.

Needless to say, I never went back to that museum again and as soon as I'd gotten home, I had retched into the toilet until my guts hurt, and I had to push back the imaginary scream of a woman who'd lost her future. And I also pushed away the memory of looking at the people next to me, seeing them whisper to each other, and finally seeing how they _smiled_ in a way that told me this didn't affect them at all. As if it were a side show curiosity, and not a catastrophe.

A part of me figured that's how people looked at me as well.

But not Yuuri, as I finally got myself back to the present. He wasn't looking at me at all, rather he'd moved away from the swords now. He was now on the floor, his back against a couch, and fumbling around the floor. I figured I'd help him with whatever he needed, and approached. My elbows landed lightly on the top of the couch, allowing me an unadulterated view of the back of his head.

"Cha doing?"

He startles a moment, casting a nervous eye over his shoulder before managing a watery, shaky smile. "Don't scare me like that! Haha, actually, I was… Well, I guess I seem rude making myself comfortable, don't I?"

I feel mild today. Maybe it's the memories, maybe it's the ache of disgust I start to feel in my stomach, or maybe it'' because having Yuuri around is slowly becoming something of a sedative. With him around, the onslaught that would usually have me crawling to the street corner and beckoning the next man with a fat wallet over to make it worse hits me on a lesser scale. Where normally I'd feel as though a whale had been dropped on me, now I felt like piles of origami cranes were being heaped on my head.

It was almost pleasant, like snow with sharp edges.

"Not at all. Just expect me to take the same liberties."

He smiles a little truer, and chuckles. "You've hardly told me anything, let alone invaded my personal space like I am."

I smile and push myself off the couch before dropping next to him on the floor. He smiles – so damn friendly it's almost irritating – but I push this annoyance aside and snort brassily. He doesn't mind, and my fingers search for what I know he's looking for, because there's only the T.V in front of us. When I find the remote, I flick the T.V on and wonder vaguely how the hell we ended up like this.

And then things mesh and meld, minutes turn to eternities and the room fades behind me, and all that matters is that I can hear Yuuri yelping and feel him blush, and there's the smell of his sweat and sun-kissed skin against my nose.

It's hours later now, and I'm awake. I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep until I'd opened my eyes and the sliding doors were darkening from the setting sun. Everything was blurry and hazy and I wondered how I'd find my way around and wondered more how I'd managed to sleep upright.

"…A-awake now, Vorufu?" His voice is different and slightly cracked, and at first I'm unfamiliar with what's just happened.

It's only when I sit upright fully and feel the knot in my neck that I've realized the simple day has passed without me. I'd fallen asleep on Yuuri's shoulder while watching T.V, and he'd sat there through it all and I think he'd been blushing the whole time. That, or he'd started blushing now because as soon as my eyes clear and focus, I see his face is red and there's a pout on his lips.

I wonder if I'd done something wrong?

"Y-you know…haha, you kinda snore really loud when you're asleep. For such a pretty boy, I'm surprised."

And that's all that was need for me to glare at him, for him to laugh and stop looking so upset, and for me to grab a pillow and teach him not to mock me. And that was all for it to end with him on top of me, pinning my arms down so I couldn't hit him with the pillow, the both of us flushed and laughing. It felt good, because for once, I'd felt free of my soul.

I was little and vulnerable like he was all the time, and it felt good. I was going to choke when he left.

His head cocks to the side, though, as soon as our laughter dies but he doesn't move to get off me. "That's the thirtieth time I think I've heard that song…"

"_…She's real pretty and she's real into you and she's sleeping inside of you…"_

I'd forgotten I left the damn thing on. But it's not like we can't pay the electrical bills.

"Yeah…I'll go turn it off—"

"No. I…kinda like this song. I don't understand what she's saying, my English isn't so well…" He laughs in that embarrassed way, and I frown at him. Out of instinct.

"Well, it's not important then, I guess."

"I'll learn, when I go to school. And I'll practice with you—you do know American, don't you?"

It insults me he'd ask, and it's plain on my face. I see him laugh and he finally pushes himself away, if only to reach around his head and scratch nervously at the back of the base of his neck. He rattles off quick apologies, but I don't care because as soon as I push myself up I shove him and all is right with this simple little world of ours again.

And he thinks so too, because he grins.

And the woman – Rilo Kiley was the artist's name – rambles off another, _"And you're bad neeeews…and I don't care, I like yooou…"_

We spend a dinner of cup-o-noodles together. Him telling me of his life and his mother, ranting about having an older brother who pesters him while I tell him matter-of-factly that he is a wimp, which he truly is. He whines to stop calling him that, and I point out the reasons and he smiles a bit after a while. And then we talk of school – we'll be going to different schools unfortunately – and he tells me of sports and baseball and I tell him plainly how sports usually bore me. He mopes and whines some more, and then there's more wimp calling and some noodle throwing and some laughing and I feel so complete and can't remember the last time I'd smiled so much. And when it's all done and over, he slips on the shoes he'd struggled to get out of earlier, and he smirks and promises that he'd we'd meet more, and I believe him because he was what'd brightened this house and I needed something to believe in anyway.

He waves, I wave back hesitantly before turning up my nose, but I think he understands what I mean. I don't know because I don't catch whatever look he makes in reply to that act, and then the door is closed in a whoosh of cold night air.

And just as I had predicted, when he left I choked.


End file.
